


Are you gonna go my way?

by teacuphuman



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Anal Sex, Gay Epiphany, Hitchhiking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, but not really?, happy endings all around, transactional sex, who needs pants?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16467173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: By the time he notices the truck, his undershirt is stuck to him and he’s marking his path with sweat droplets in the dirt. The trucks slows as it passes him, veering into the middle of the road to save Arthur from the wall of dust the tires kick up. He hears the driver’s laugh and swears when the brake lights flash. The truck pulls over onto the shoulder and waits.Arthur briefly considers walking by and taking his chances in the heat but his boot is chaffing his foot and he knows the truck will only follow him until he gives in. Eames is stubborn like that.





	Are you gonna go my way?

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [gifset](http://midnite-wet-dreamz.tumblr.com/post/178965497431). I've been finding it hard to write for the past few months due to chronic headaches, but this gifset got me all riled up and @swtalmnd was cheering me on because she's the best at making me say "What the fuck, let's do it!" and now there's this and I'm not even a little bit sorry. I've changed some things from the gifset because it was needed and I can. Enjoy!

It’s barely past sunrise when Arthur stumbles out the side door of the bar. He squints through the haze, the heat already turning the late-summer day into a melted puddle of tumbleweeds and cracked earth, and pats down his pockets, frowning when he comes up empty.

 

“Do I at least get a phone call?” he asks, giving the bouncer behind him his best smile. The guy spits on Arthur’s boot and slams the door in his face and Arthur figures it must be the split lip and the blackened eye messing up the effectiveness of his dimples

 

He starts walking, following the dusty road out of town. It’s thirty-seven miles home and the only cars on the road are heading to the Lord’s house so his chances of catching a ride are slim. They took his phone, his wallet, even his fucking shirt, but the ace of hearts saved his boots. Within an hour he’s wondering if they were worth the hit he took to his kidney for that win because his soles are sticking to the asphalt and pissing hurts like a bitch.

 

By the time he notices the truck, his undershirt is stuck to him and he’s marking his path with sweat droplets in the dirt. The trucks slows as it passes him, veering into the middle of the road to save Arthur from the wall of dust the tires kick up. He hears the driver’s laugh and swears when the brake lights flash. The truck pulls over onto the shoulder and waits.

 

Arthur briefly considers walking by and taking his chances in the heat but his boot is chaffing his foot and he knows the truck will only follow him until he gives in. Eames is stubborn like that.

 

Eames is one of those drifter types they get so often around here; the ones that show up in beaters held together by duct tape and hope, or stumble off the bus into the middle of town, bleary-eyed and hungover, looking for under the table work and no questions asked. They trickle in around the end of May and disappear in September when the harvest is in and the money is plenty.

 

This is Eames’ second year and Arthur can’t figure out why he came back after the clusterfuck he caused last Fall. Most of the guys who help with the harvest spend what little free time they have fucking anyone who will let them through the door, sometimes hooking up with a local in the first few weeks and hanging on until they take off, leaving broken hearts behind them. 

 

But not Eames. Eames wasn’t content with the boys down at the honky-tonk who’d fall to their knees for him behind the dumpster out back. Eames was flashy, and brazen, and when he got caught bending the Mayor’s husband over a credenza in the lobby of City Hall, The Honorable Mayor Talbert lost her shit and took after Eames with her Citizen of the Year Award. 

 

No one figured he’d show his face again, but Eames was back three days later with six stitches and a shit-eating grin, his sights set on Arthur. 

 

The back of the truck is empty save for some loose dirt and a beat-up toolbox, and Arthur swears under his breath before stepping up to the open passenger side window.

 

“Can I ride?” he asks, glancing around the cab instead of at Eames.

 

“Wicks clean you out again, pickle?” 

 

As soon as Eames speaks, Arthur can’t help but look at him. His accent is terrible and falls somewhere between the nasal roughness of Boston and the slur of the Bayou, like he pieced it together as he grew up watching too many buddy-cop shows. 

 

“Fuck off,” Arthur snaps, but he doesn’t walk away because sometimes he needs to stare directly at Eames’ mouth to decipher what he’s saying and Eames is already laughing at him, pink lips spread wide to show off that one crooked front tooth that makes Arthur wonder if punching Eames hard enough would fix it.

 

“So touchy,” Eames teases, reaching across to open the door of the truck. “Get on in.”

 

Arthur huffs and slides in, the cracked vinyl hot and stiff, even through his clothes. He figures he’s in for thirty-four miles of lazy hassling and double entendres, but Eames just gives him one long look as he tosses a toothpick between his teeth and pulls back onto the road. 

 

The breeze through the window is heaven and Arthur thinks the cab of Eames’ truck is his new favorite place in the world. At least he does until Eames slows down to turn into Anderson’s gas station and the cool air melts into stifling heat, instantly matting Arthur’s hair to his forehead. He looks at Eames for an explanation because it’s the Sabbath and Mrs. Anderson is the cousin of the new Pastor’s wife and no way is she going to let her cousin’s piety outshine hers. On Sundays, Anderson’s is closed. 

 

Eames heaves a big, dramatic sigh and turns to Arthur, smile like a shark. “Gonna need ten bucks for gas, pussycat.”

 

Arthur glares at him, silently cursing Eames from the brim of his battered John Deere ball cap, to his broad chest and the stained t-shirt covering it, and down to his spread legs, knee perched on the seat above the stick shift so he can sprawl in the corner of the cab and watch Arthur squirm.

 

“You know I don’t have it,” Arthur says, running a hand through his damp hair. “The pump’s not even open.”

 

Eames squints out the dirty windshield and sucks his teeth, the toothpick hanging precariously from his lips.

 

“I can pay you on the 24th when I get paid,” Arthur bargains, wondering if Eames knows he’s not good for it. “You’ll be my first stop.”

 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Eames chides, still staring out over the at junk lot Anderson keeps behind the station. “But don’t worry, I have another idea.”

 

Arthur grits his teeth, his gaze flickering to Eames’ lap and back to his own, but not before he catches Eames’ eye in the rearview mirror. A shudder runs through him at the heat he sees there, and he nearly misses Eames tell him to get his cock out.

 

“What?” Arthur grunts, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

 

Eames sinks a little lower in his seat, the denim of his pants stretching tight across his thighs. “Pull it out and let me see it.” 

 

He opens his mouth to refuse, but no sound comes out and Arthur’s left gaping stupidly at Eames, who looks amused and not at all surprised by Arthur’s reaction.

 

“Gas, grass, or ass, Arthur,” he shrugs. “I don’t make the rules.

 

“I’m not doing that,” he gasps, hating how shocked he sounds.

 

Eames is across the cab in a flurry of movement and Arthur braces for the hit that doesn’t come. Instead Eames has unlatched and pushed open the passenger door and half of Arthur’s ass is out of the truck before he registers what’s happening.

 

“Enjoy your walk; I hear it’s gonna be a scorcher,” Eames tells him, starting the truck and throwing it into gear.

 

Arthur considers it, he really does. Considers slamming the door in Eames’ face and laughing when it breaks his nose. Considers walking away and never having the guts to listen to the little voice in his head that carelessly whispers shameless thoughts when Arthur slows down enough to pay attention.

 

Instead he holds his breath, opens his pants, and pulls his dick out of his underwear. Eames takes a minute to shut off the truck and just look at him, until Arthur knows his flush has spread down his neck. Eames hums speculatively and tells Arthur to take off his shirt.

 

Arthur complies, dropping it to his feet and ignoring that his dick is thickening up just from having Eames’ eyes on him.

 

“Be a sport and keep lookout,” Eames garbles as he drops his hat on Arthur’s head and leans over to swallow him down.

 

Arthur keeps his lips pressed closed and tries to watch the road for vehicles, but Eames’ mouth is a revelation and the way his shoulders move under the thin cotton of his shirt as he sucks Arthur’s dick is mesmerizing, and before he knows what’s happening, before he can even relax enough to really  _ feel _ Eames, he comes with a surprised yelp.

 

Eames chokes a little and pulls off, spitting come on the floorboard as he works Arthur to completion. There’s come on his chin, but he grins up at Arthur. “I knew you’d love it,” he laughs, wiping his face and hand off on Arthur’s discarded shirt. 

 

He takes his hat back and starts the truck. Arthur has just enough brain cells left to get the door shut before Eames peels out of the station and back onto the blacktop. Eames doesn’t even look at him as they speed away, but he cranks the radio up when an Aaron Tippin song comes on and sings along, tone deaf and half a beat too slow. It takes Arthur until the end of the song to realize his limp cock is still hanging out of his pants. He moves to tuck himself away, but Eames’ hand stops him.

 

“Leave it,” Eames says, squeezing Arthur’s hand quickly but keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m not done with you yet.”

 

Arthur sits, frozen, as Eames turns down a range road and parks behind a stand of trees. Arthur’s not sure who owns the land, but it’s been half cleared for the house that will sit on it this time next year. There’s a mobile sawmill in the middle of the clearance, a bobcat at the treeline, and Eames grabbing hold of Arthur and dragging him across the cab and out of the truck.

 

The second after his heels hit the ground, the driver’s door is slammed and Arthur hisses when his back is pressed against the sun-heated metal of the pale blue Dodge.

 

Eames is in his face, and he feels larger than life this close up, his eyes bright with excitement and his crooked smile sharp enough to rip Arthur into pieces.

 

“You like me sucking your cock?” Eames pants, his lips grazing Arthur’s cheek.

 

“Blowjob’s a blowjob, right?” Arthur feints, stifling a moan when Eames presses closer, his hand snaking between Arthur’s legs to fondle his balls.

 

“Ah, nah. S’not. I bet no little girly back home ever made you come that fast. Did they, Arthur?” The words are muddled by the skin of Arthur’s neck as Eames explores. “Did little Susie-Sue get down on her knees for you behind the Dairy Queen?”

 

Arthur nearly laughs, taken off guard by the words, but he manages to choke out, ”Who the hell is Suzie-Sue?”

 

Eames ignores him, biting gently at Arthur’s adam’s apple, his fingers rubbing firmly over the thin skin of Arthur’s perineum. ”Or did you sit her in your lap and slip your sweet prick inside her? Did she ride you until you screamed?”

 

”I don’t scream,” Arthur spits, because Eames’ words are ridiculous, but also wrong, and then Eames’ lips close over his nipple and Arthur can’t remember what they were arguing about. There’s a dangerous glint in Eames’ eyes when he straightens up and ficks his tongue over Arthur’s upper lip, right where it’s cut and sore, and Arthur can’t help but gasp at the sharp heat.

 

”You will, sweetheart, just you wait,” and then Eames’ tongue is in his mouth, rough, and sure, and everything Arthur doesn’t have the courage to say yes to.

 

Eames is sloppy and unfocused, like he’s taking in as much of Arthur as he can in a short amount of time. Like he thinks Arthur’s going to tell him to stop. And Arthur should, he knows he should. There are a thousand reasons why, of which Arthur not being gay is paramount. Only he’s not saying anything. Instead he’s kissing back and gripping Eames’ arms like he’s going to disappear if Arthur doesn’t leave his mark on him. He’s never felt like this before and it’s confusing and scary, but it’s also the most thrilling thing he’s ever done. Eames’ touch burns him from the inside out and with every kiss, every flick of his tongue and scrape of his nails, Eames is unfurling that want, that desire that Arthur’s kept hidden for so long.

 

“I went to Blue’s last night,” Eames tells him biting down Arthur’s neck. “I was lookin’ for a party, but all I found were girls that were too hard and boys that were too soft.”

 

Arthur rolls his eyes at Eames’ dramatics, but he doesn’t stop his hands from knocking Eames’ hat off and slipping his fingers into his hair.

 

“But you, you look like you can party,” Eames grins, the skin around his eyes crinkling and his lashes sticking together with sweat. His tongue presses into Arthur’s split lip and his fingers dig into the bruise at his jaw until Arthur flinches away.

 

Eames pulls his shirt over his head and presses their chests together, the curled fuzz dusting his body scuffing against the smoothness of Arthur’s skin, and heat spikes between them so sharply that Arthur thinks he may black out. Then Eames takes hold of Arthur’s hand, kissing the palm gently before pulling it behind him and jamming it into his own pants. 

 

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, but follows were Eames leads without question, dying to know the feel of him, inside and out. Arthur’s middle finger slips between Eames’ crack, rubbing gently through the soft, damp hair until he’s sinking into Eames, just like that.

 

Eames’ fingers dig into his ribs, but he moans and mouths at Arthur’s neck, so Arthur keeps going, pushing in and dragging out until Eames is shaking against him.

 

“Still open from last night,” Eames laughs, his voice higher than normal, and then he’s spinning them so his back is to the truck and Arthur’s leaning into him, pressing all along the line of his body and panting in time with the rhythm of his finger.

 

Eames is liquid heat inside and not for the first time, Arthur wonders what it would be like to fuck him. Because Eames is here, and he’s willing, and he’s not exactly asking Arthur’s opinion so Arthur doesn’t feel the need to protest. Maybe that’s why Eames is doing it this way. Maybe he knows the struggle inside Arthur’s heart and mind and he’s doing Arthur a favour by leaving his conscience out of the equation. Or maybe Eames just really is this shameless.

 

He realizes he’s hard again when Eames paws at his hips and Arthur’s pants fall to his ankles. Eames squeezes his dick and pumps it a few times to get Arthur primed, then he’s spinning around, Arthur’s finger sliding out and hooking over the waistband of Eames’ jeans. Eames heels off his boots and shimmies out of his pants, kicking them out of the way and shoving his feet back into the boots because it’s hot all hell and no amount of sex is worth burning the soles of your feet. He looks ridiculous in nothing but brown cowboy boots, hands gripping the window and truck bed, one foot up on the running board, but Arthur’s mouth still goes slack at the sight of his hole, pink and shiny with lube Eames put there himself. On purpose. So someone could fuck him, just like this, nothing between them except the condom Eames pulls out of nowhere and the spit Arthur adds right before he clamps a hand on Eames’ shoulder and uses the other to shove inside. 

 

Eames cries out, reedy and loud, but he’s pushing back, forcing Arthur’s cock in deeper, and it’s a good thing he knows what he’s about because Arthur is frozen in place; shell-shocked at the heat, and the clench, and the raw hunger he feels at watching Eames take him in, again and again.

 

But Eames wants more than a passive partner it seems, because he pulls his torso from the open window and growls, “Jesus, Arthur, _ move! _ ”

 

Arthur snaps to attention, swaying as his overwhelmed senses come back online. His boots slip on the gravel and the slap of their bodies echoes in his ears, adding to the chorus of birdsong and the chirping of crickets around them. He can smell sweat and latex, and the undeniably alluring scent of Eames; earth, sweat, and a little bit like motor oil, and he grunts as he slams forward, crushing Eames against the side of the truck. 

 

It’s just like fucking a woman, Arthur thinks, except completely different, and Eames has a white-knuckle grip on the bed of the truck and one cowboy boot on the rear tire, arching his back and giving Arthur something to rut into. He’s perfectly open to Arthur, unbalanced and forced to cling to the truck while Arthur fucks him. Helpless and loving it.

 

Eames laughs, rocking onto his toes and back down to his heel with the force of Arthur’s thrusts. “Keep fucking me like this, darling,” he pants, taking everything Arthur gives him and pushing back for more. “And I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

 

He’s nearly breathless, letting out little gasps and moans that have Arthur curving his palm over Eames’ jaw and pulling him ‘round so Arthur can taste the sounds as they form on his tongue.

 

Eames swears and clenches around him, greedy for it, and then he’s coming, painting the side of the truck with spunk as he forces his tongue into Arthur’s mouth with such force that Arthur has to brace himself to keep them joined together. Arthur bites down on Eames’ shoulder to keep from saying anything he’ll regret, but the second Eames stops shuddering Arthur’s spreading his legs as far as his pants will allow and digging his heels into the dirt for leverage so he can shove, and press, and give everything he has to fucking Eames.

 

Before Eames can say anything, Arthur clamps his hand down on the back of his neck, keeping Eames’ head down and his body bent in two so Arthur can pound into him as hard as possible, and then he’s coming, unloading in the perfect inferno of Eames’ body as he trembles and lays himself over Eames’ back.

 

Then Eames is pulling away, letting Arthur slip out of him, the air startlingly cold in contrast to the tight heat of Eames. He pulls the condom off Arthur’s dick and tosses it towards the trees, like it doesn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t just turn Arthur’s world upside down.

 

There’s spunk still dripping from the side of the truck, taking flecks of rust with it when it falls to the ground, wet and cold, and Arthur wonders if this is it. If this is all he’ll ever have of the truth that’s inside of him. He watches Eames pull an old saddle blanket from behind his seat and spread it over the truck bench, ready to hit the road, and suddenly, Arthur can’t let him. 

 

He thinks of his life, of the debts, and the scars, and the race against a ticking clock that’s only ever existed in his mind, and he’s tired. He can’t see a road beyond the one he’s on and it terrifies him.

 

“Better get on with it, eh?” Eames says, pulling his shirt back on and settling the sweat-stained hat back on his head. But before Eames can climb back in the truck, Arthur collapses into him, his hands finding Eames’ face and pressing a single, desperate, lingering kiss to his lips, hoping Eames can somehow read all the words Arthur isn’t brave enough to say yet.

 

When the kiss ends, Eames’ smile is smug and bright, his hands stroking down Arthur’s sides in a steady, soothing motion. “I figure that gets you about ten miles closer to town.”

 

“Ten?” Arthur balks as the fear in his heart disperses. “This thing’s a diesel, that should get me at least fifteen. And another five for the blowjob.”

 

Eames herds him into the cab, shaking his head when Arthur steals his hat. “You drive a hard bargain, darling.”

 

Arthur shrugs and adjusts the hat so it’s blocking the worst of the glare, then he hangs his arm out the window and grins across the cab at Eames. “Yeah, but I’m worth every penny.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Not gonna lie, I am so thirsty for comments.


End file.
